


The Mysterious Visitor

by Lefaym



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Watson receives a mysterious visitor who asks a favour of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to used_songs on LJ for the beta.

_Honesty compels me to record these events, though I suppose they are of little significance when compared to the cases that my husband has chronicled in relation to his long and intimate association with Sherlock Holmes. I have ordered that this record be kept in a locked safe until a length of fifty years has passed after my own death, so that it may bring no scandal upon my husband's name. I know that many will think me sinful upon reading this account, but I cannot bring myself to look back on my actions with any regret. God, in His infinite wisdom, will be my judge._

_—Mary Watson, 1890_

In the years since my marriage, I had grown accustomed to spending my evenings alone, with a novel or needlework in my lap for amusement. My husband had allowed me to decorate our sitting room to my liking, for he claimed that my own taste was far superior to his own, and it was not an unpleasant place to pass away my solitary hours.

It was on one such evening that my maid came to me to inform me that a stranger, an elderly woman, had arrived at the front door.

"It is probably a patient for John," I told her. "You must tell her to go away and come back tomorrow, or else, if it is an emergency, to visit the practice next door. I am afraid there is no one here who can help her."

To my surprise, she shook her head. "No, ma'am," she said. "The woman asked specifically for you, though she looks like no friend of yours that I have ever seen."

My maid's words could not fail to arouse my curiosity and so, perhaps unwisely, I said, "In that case, Sarah, you must show her in to me, for I am sure there is some good reason for her visit."

"Yes, ma'am."

It did not take Sarah long to return to the sitting room, with my mysterious guest following close behind her. I stood as they entered the room, setting my novel aside. The strange woman moved slowly and her back was hunched, but when she looked up at me, I saw that her eyes were bright and intelligent.

"Mrs. Watson," she greeted me, in an accent that I associated with the region of Kent, "I must ask your assistance on a matter of privacy."

"Well, I shall certainly listen to your request," I said, "though I cannot promise to be of assistance until I am aware of its nature. Sarah, you will leave us, please."

The woman remained quiet after Sarah left the room, and I opened my mouth to ask her of her troubles, but she raised a hand, motioning me to silence. After a half minute had passed, she hobbled to the door, and opened it, peering into the hall outside. Only when she was satisfied did she turn back to face me.

As she turned, to my astonishment, a great change came over her. Her hunched and twisted back became straight and proud, and her face, which had seemed moments before to be old and coarse suddenly appeared smooth and soft. I had barely had time to take in these changes when her right hand pulled the grey wig from her head, allowing a long cascade of dark hair to tumble down her back.

I had often heard my husband tell of the clever disguises that Sherlock Holmes used in the course of his investigations, and it was clear to me that this woman was similarly gifted. Indeed, it took me only moments to recognise her from the photograph John had showed me in connection with his account of "A Scandal in Bohemia".

"You are Irene Adler!" I said.

"And you," she replied, her accent now American, "are Mary Morstan."

"I am Mary Watson now," I said, although I cannot deny that I felt a thrill of pleasure at hearing the name I had worn for the greater part of my life.

"In that case, you should probably greet me as Irene Norton," she told me. "But you know, I think I like Adler better. It suits me."

"I must tell you," I said, "I do not think I should be able to provide you with any assistance, particularly none that can remain confidential. Indeed, I think my husband should be most displeased with me if I did not send word of your presence to Baker Street immediately."

Irene smiled at me. "You're not going to send word though, are you?"

"Whatever gives you that idea?" I asked her.

"Baker Street itself is the reason," she said.

Her words caused me to pause a moment, for I found myself unable to gather my thoughts together. "I confess myself most confused," I admitted.

"Your husband goes there often, doesn't he?"

"Indeed, he and Mr. Holmes are the most intimate of friends," I acknowledged, taking care that my voice should betray nothing.

"But shouldn't your husband be here with you? It seems to me that if a man wants his wife to confide in him, he should spend more of his time with her than with his friend."

I felt my back stiffen at her words, but something in her eye prevented me from responding harshly. Although her words almost seemed designed to taunt me, her expression told me that her motive was not malice.

"I was aware of my husband's affinity for Mr. Holmes before we married; indeed John and I should never have met was it not for their close connection," I said.

In spite of my words, a voice in my head reminded me that in the early days of our marriage, John had made a far greater effort to spend his free evenings in my company. To myself, I admitted that I had not expected that his association with Holmes would re-assert itself with such intensity.

Although I did not share these thoughts with Irene, I feel sure that she perceived them in my face, for as they passed through my mind, she stepped forward and laid her hand upon my arm in a most gentle and understanding fashion.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have spoken so rudely. I've come to ask for your help, after all."

"There is no need for apologies," I said. I took my arm away from her, though not abruptly, for I did not wish for Irene to feel slighted. "Now please, tell me what favour you wish to ask of me, and I shall let you know if it is in my power to grant it."

"It's quite easy really," she said. "I'd simply like to spend the night in your spare bedroom."

"Why on earth should you wish to do that?" I asked, blinking at the strange request. "Are you unable to afford your own lodgings for the evening?"

Irene laughed. "It's not a matter of expense," she said.

"Then what is your reason?"

She leaned her head in towards mine in a conspiratorial fashion. "I need to avoid Sherlock Holmes."

Her words intrigued me, although I knew that I had every reason to distrust this woman. I certainly found it most refreshing to be in the company of one who did not welcome the detective's company. I reminded myself sternly that I must not abandon all caution.

"I think you must tell me more of this matter," I said, "before I decide on my answer to you."

"Do you mind if I sit?" Irene asked.

"Please do," I replied, and both of us settled onto the sofa before Irene spoke again.

"First," she said, "I'll assure you that I've done nothing illegal. It's just a little game I'm playing, is all."

"A game?"

"A game." She nodded. "As I'm sure you know, my husband and I have been living on the continent these past years, and in that time, we had the misfortune to run afoul of a devil named Dupont, who conned Godfrey out of a pretty large sum of money. If only he'd thought to consult me before he made the deal, I would have picked up on the deception immediately, but you know what men are like—they'll never ask for the assistance of a woman, no matter how much it's needed."

Irene smiled at me, and I could not help but return the expression. "Do go on," I said.

"Well, after this incident, you can be sure I kept my eye on the fellow, gathering evidence here and there. Just recently, I received word that he'd come to England, and I knew then that my chance had come. Various pieces of evidence all converged on one club in London, and I knew that with the right person in charge of the investigation, the scoundrel would be put away for years."

"And I suppose the right person is Sherlock Holmes?"

She nodded. "None other. I came over to England in disguise, because if my part in this was known, Dupont's associates on the continent would never let up until they'd made Godfrey into a pauper, and I can't protect the man all the time. I knew that old Sherlock, though, he wouldn't be able to resist the case if I threw the right clues in his direction. Even now, I'm quite sure that he and your husband are chasing Dupont across the city. They'll have him by morning."

"That is quite a tale," said I.

"Indeed it is," Irene agreed. "I know that it's only a matter of time before Holmes will detect my hand in it, but it's imperative that he doesn't do so until after the fact. I absolutely cannot take the risk that Dupont will learn of my involvement, and besides, I enjoy giving Sherlock the slip, when I have the chance."

"Allow me a moment to consider it," I said.

Already, however, I think I had been swayed, for Irene Adler had a most compelling manner of relating events. Even as I mentally examined the details of her story, I found myself wishing I had been able to see her on stage in the opera; I could easily understand why audiences had clamoured to hear that rich, low voice raised in song. Yet, there was something open in her manner too, in spite of her talent for guile; she was no longer the distant figure who had featured briefly in my husband's stories.

"This would easily be the best place for me to hide," said Irene, pulling me out of my reverie. "Sherlock Holmes won't think to look for me in the house of his closest friend, even if that friend doesn't spend much time here. I've taken steps to ensure that he'll never trace me here and learn of your involvement. The disguise of the old woman is one I only adopted an hour ago, and I'll never wear it again after I leave here. If you consent to let me stay, he'll always wonder where I spent this night, and it'll give me great pleasure to think of him pacing his study and never arriving at the truth."

I confess that the image Irene painted caused me to smile. "You have convinced me," I said. "If you will resume your disguise, I will call Sarah and have her make up the spare room immediately."

Irene became the old woman again more quickly than I would have thought possible, and Sarah came promptly when I rang the bell.

"Mrs Grey is a good friend of Abigail Smythe from my charity club," I explained to my maid. "Abigail recommended she come to me for advice on a matter of some delicacy regarding her daughter's suitor, and it is too late now to expect to her return home unaccompanied, so I have insisted that she stay the night."

I knew that Sarah would believe me without question. I had developed a reputation, amongst my friends, as a woman they might rely upon should their mind be troubled, for it was not difficult for me to listen to others when my husband required so little of my attention. Turning towards Irene, I saw that she approved of my story, and I could not help but feel a swell of pride, though I am sure it was wrong of me.

When Sarah left to prepare the room, I feared that we should have little to talk about, but Irene quickly engaged me in a discussion of George Eliot's _Middlemarch_, which she had seen upon my bookshelf. In that moment I truly became glad that I had agreed to Irene's plan; all my lingering doubts vanished when I saw her smile broadly at finding the volume amongst my collection, and I eagerly offered my opinions on the novel in response to her own.

"It's a great tragedy," said Irene, when our mutual love of Eliot was established, "when a woman like Dorothea finds herself married to a man who feels no passion for her. Still, she did at least find someone worthy of her in the end."

I could hardly think of how to respond to that, but fortunately, I was saved from doing so by Sarah, who knocked on the door to tell us that the spare room was ready for Mrs Grey. I insisted that I should show my guest there immediately, and sent Sarah off to bed.

In order to maintain her disguise, Irene was compelled to lean heavily on me as we ascended the stairs, but I found that I welcomed her warm weight on my arm; I perceived some sign of affection in the way her hand held onto my wrist, and I realised I could not recall the last time someone had held my arm. I experienced a twinge of disappointment when we entered the spare room, and she stepped away from me in order to become her own self once more.

"Do be sure to lock the door during the night," I told her. "I have instructed Sarah not to bother you, but I should hate for your ruse to be discovered by way of some accidental intrusion."

"I'll take every precaution," Irene assured me.

"In that case," I said, "I will bid you good night. I hope that you will rest well."

At my words, Irene stepped in towards me, and placed her hand on my shoulder. "I really do thank you for this," she told me, her eyes catching mine. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"It is nothing," I insisted.

"No it isn't," she said. "You underestimate yourself, Mary."

Again, I felt myself thrill at the sound of my name, but although Irene's words pleased me, I could not agree with them. "I've done very little," I said.

"That's nonsense." Irene waved her free hand as though dismissing my words to another room. "I'd never have come here if you weren't a smart one. I can recognise it, even if others can't."

I could not help but blush. "I am not nearly so skilled as yourself," I reminded her.

"Don't be silly. My plan would've fallen apart without you."

I shook my head, but I knew there would be no point in arguing with her further. "I am glad I've been able to help you," I said, and I hoped that she would be able to read my honesty on my face.

"You've helped more than you can know," she said, and then, tightening her hand on my shoulder, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to my own.

It seemed a simple and innocent kiss at first, as one might give to a sister or a school friend, yet it affected me deeply, and I found myself raising my hands to her neck, as though some latent instinct had woken in me. I know that Irene must have sensed the change in me, for at that moment, her mouth opened beneath mine.

It did not cross my mind that I should pull away from her; I thought only of returning her affections. I felt my hands rise to her head, so that I might bring her closer to me, while her own hands slipped around my waist to hold me tightly. I was reminded strangely of the first months of my marriage, when John's attentions to me had been most pronounced, but I thought it odd that it should do so, because Irene's lips were nothing like John's; she was soft where he was hard and brittle, and she smelled of lavender where John smelled of soap and tobacco. I did not dwell long on my husband, however, for Irene quickly consumed all my thoughts, and I was aware of little in the world but her.

The passion that our embrace unlocked in me was such that I became insensible to the passage of time. I do not know if we removed our clothing quickly or slowly, although I have a strong recollection of Irene's hands unfastening my dress, and my own hands trembling as I attempted to do the same for her. I know that she pulled me down onto the bed, and that I went with her willingly, as we struggled, laughing, to divest ourselves of our undergarments.

I recall her hand upon my breast as she kissed my neck, and then—even now the memory of it sends a flush into my cheeks—her soft white fingers closed around my wrist, and she pulled my hand down, guiding it gently so that it came to rest between her legs. With her hand behind mine, she showed me how I might reach into the very centre of her, bringing her pleasure inside and out. When she cried out in completion, her entire body shaking beneath mine, I kissed her boldly, and I felt for a moment as though our bodies might truly merge into one.

I had thought then that that would be the end of it, but I was mistaken, for when Irene had caught her breath she took my shoulders and turned me onto my back, reversing our positions. Her mouth was on my throat, and then my breast. I felt her lips upon my stomach, and she paused a moment so that she could tease my navel, before she moved lower still and pressed her mouth to the most intimate part of me.

Had anyone described such an act to me but a few hours before, I should have thought it the grossest of perversities, yet Irene made it seem to be the most natural thing I had ever done, and even now, I cannot think of it in any other way. Irene's lips on my most neglected sensitive folds, brought me to heights that I had never experienced in the midst of marital congress with my husband, and when she was done I could not speak for a full minute from the wonderful shock of it.

When we had both had time to catch our breath, Irene took herself from the bed, and I cried out in protest, but she merely smiled at me, and made her way to the bedroom door, where she turned the key in the lock, for she had remembered my earlier words, though I had forgotten. This task completed, she quickly joined me again, taking me in her arms. It is no doubt wicked of me, that I almost wished she had forgotten as I had—that I wished for John to come home in the early hours of the morning and find us there, so that he might have to face the consequence of his frequent and lengthy visits to Baker Street—but I did not let myself dwell on it. Irene's hand was in my hair, her face pressed into my shoulder, and I allowed myself to drift into sleep.

It occurred to me later, when our encounter was but a memory, that perhaps Irene had initiated intimacies between us to ensure my silence on the matter, for I would not be able to make mention of her visit without the risk of betraying myself, through my face if not my words. Indeed, when I awoke the next morning, before the sky began to turn light, Irene was gone, leaving only the impression of her body in the bed behind her. My heart was heavy as I plumped the mattress and pillows to disguise my own presence in the bed and returned to my own room, to sleep there a few hours so as not to arouse Sarah's suspicion.

I am quite certain, however, that my silence cannot have been Irene's only motive. A week later, when the news of Dupont's arrest had faded from the headlines, and my husband was back at Baker Street helping Holmes with a new case, a parcel arrived for me in the post, with no return address. When I opened it, I found inside a first edition of Eliot's _Middlemarch_, and although there was no note, I had no doubt as to the identity of the one who had sent it.

I held the volume to my chest, and was glad of everything that had passed between us.


End file.
